The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 21, 1904, Page 5

The a final Bishop hand ed to 'TURNED ¢ £ | ¥ ¥ AROUND By Elliott WalKker “Where's my spece?” she inquired, with & cavernous yawn ez usual. Hurry up is it? Thet off, is miles a2 man you do be fer n' ‘round, wantin’ things afore thar's any need hotter'n Tophet. It's bad enough now “You come out here an’ see,” cried her husband. excitedly. “Stan’ in the front 4 an’ look over on them mot What d'yer think of sech & sky ezz thet?” #Jt does look alarmin’,” assented Mre. Haley, shading her eyes with a fat hand. “But ter me it ain’t a rainy may do somethin’. The d holler, don’t 1t? 'Ceptin’ the er, thar a no sound.” ‘b'zu’xr;?ee'xr les to the west, the round- ed domes the Taconic range bil- lowed blackly against a dull, brl;!}' background. Here and there rolled slowly great masses of cumuli, fringed with threatening, dark-hued edges, the white, piling bulk shining in the strange light, which now faded to a @reary copper shede, while the steady, menecing cagnonade l.creased in vol- ume, shaking the hills and reverber- ating through the hushed valley. It seemed a&s though the very leaves were tenini m";z o & thln‘gver happened in this section, I should say a tornader was onto us,” whispered Enoch anx- returned Beulah, rub- ing her fat hands, “but thet's nothin’l Tormader! Sho! We don't hev ‘em ‘round here, Wal! I guess I'll be mov- sn. It's darkenin’ up. What ails the cat, Enoch? Jest look at her tail. Come along, Jenny, you ain't afeerd of a hower, air ye?” P Sddenty, like an inky pall blotting out the face of nature, a dreadful dusk fell on the waiting landscape. The pair stood petrified for a briet second, see- ing only three frightful, whirling shapes ard their little home. ripping sound plerced thunderous burst, & myr- then a howl of weird, mport. yelled Enoch, grabbing yzed better half in an agony r “It's right onto us."” walled Mrs. Haley, ra qutting her eves. shutting B o creamed her husband, ‘g her before him. “The cellar! Inter the bedroom, then. ped! Quick! Oh, Lordy! n't ordy!” 3 Brpn ath this refuge they clasped each other close in palpitating prayer. Pen- oy, glaring and spitting, dashed after ve lived happy, and we’ll die ter- gether, Enoch,” moaned Beulah, her lips against his grizzled cheek. Th came that awful moment when the the cottage in its pitiless claws. After that ewirl of chaos, they lay still, bearkening weakly to the fading roar. "air-devil swooped down, clutching’ alive!"” breathed Enoch, faintly. ulah moved another Mr. Hadn't orter be. first one limb, then beneath pull- Haley ecrawled from old fashioned bed and * the » kin git out » high panted Beulah. s to her disorder ining breath. “Thar *"down, an’ the picters v, but I don't see no ruins. e house is stood up s go ter the back door an’ peek ter the crittter.” Haley about. ound. Together they staggered to the kitchen, both weak from shock, and gazed out blank “Guess I'm cra muttered the old man. > we be at the front door, an’ yit—an’ yit——" “*Tain’t either,” interupted Beulah, feeling the jamb. “It’s the back door, an’ here's the kitchen.”" She stopped in astonished hesitancy. But that's the road, an’ the moun- an’—oh, now ain’t thet too bad? ee*all them apple trees over in the pasture tore out by the roots an’ laid down in rows, like so many corpus Let's go to the back of the house an see about the hencoops. P'raps the barn’s standin’, too.” ““This is the back of the house,” in- sisted his wife, rubbing her spectacles for a better view. “Enoch, you're turned ‘round.” “I should say I was,” replied Mr. Haley, pettishly, “an’ so be you. Won't we never see straight ag'in? It's this a-way, Beulah. The thin we see last is fixed In our eyes, an’ if we're standin’ in our back door we're seein’ things thet ain’t. Thet's it!" Mrs. Haley slowly recovered from this statement. “Let's set on the steps awhile an’ be thankful we kin see any- thing,” she invited. ‘“Mebbe our sight will get straightened out an’' things will come to us gradual. Shut yer eyes an’ rest 'em. Then we kin see things ez they be, mebbe.” “Thet ain't a bad plan,” agreed Enoch, seating himself and Immediate- ly acting upon this advice. “I'm goin’ to imagine I'm observin' the barn an’ henhouse, an’ when I opens up I prob- ably will. I keep seein’ them apple trees, though,” he added, after a mo- ment's trial. Three men, hurrying to the worst scenes of disaster, paused in amaze- ment at sight of the old couple, sitting with clasped hands and closed eyes. A tall neighbor stepped forward so- lcitously. ““Are you blinded, Mr. Ha- ley?” he inquired. “This is Marvin Lennox. Can we help you?” “Guess not, Marvin,” responded Enoch, quivering his eyelids for a rapid glimpse and promptly screwing them up again. “Blinded? No! Our sight’s set—an’ we see things back end to. We're hopin’ ter git it right ag’in soo. Here we be on our back steps a lookin' the wrong way,” Beulah groaned. -The man stared, then broke into a hearty laugh. “Of course you are,” he chuckled. “Why, the cyclone has lifted your house right up, turned it around,. and set it square on its foundation.” He gave them each a hand. “Get up!” he added. “Come out on the sidewalk and see for yourselves.” Mr. and Mrs. Haley stood on the walk and winked in bewilderment. “It hez, fer a fact.” man slouchingly lazily along, his face brightened. . “That pesky tramp has been hanging about for a week, asking work,” he thought. “Here, you,” he called aloud. The man started, came forward sus- ously, his eye on Robinson’s hip t. The latter frowned. “Here, wake up,” he growled. *You say you want work! Go up to my cab- in then, fix it up, ahd then—then wait till T come,” his invention giving out. pi pe The man only stared and Robinson's wrath overflowed. “Don’t stand gaping there like a blasted idiot,” he roared. “Get along with you, and double quick, too. ‘See you have things well cleaned up by the time T get there or I'll make it hot for you. Here's the key.” Robinson’s methods were convineing and the man, after one glance to assure himself of the speaker’s sincerity, turned and departed in haste. With a relieved sigh Robinson crossed to the nearest saloon. “It's on me, boys,” he remarked cheerfully. “What'll you have?” ‘When finally Robinson mounted the hill to his cabin, night had fallen and the memory of the tramp had entirely escaped him. To his astonishment the T TN U HAD ETTERY cabin door stood open, a thing unprece- dented, and on the hearth lay tne last embers of a fire. Recollection came quickly, and with hurried fingers he lighted a candle to gaze about the tidied room. Everything seemed in or- der. But the man was gone, and with an exclamation Robinson darted to the cupboard where was kept his dearest possession. ,Those new boots! One glance sufficed, the boots were gone. In their place stood a pair of rusty high lows, and at that sight Robinson's rage found words. In fluent and pic- turesque English he cursed emphati- cally and categorically himself, his be- longings, the tramp and all that be- longed to him; he even began on the Bishop, but checked that. The Bishop's theory might be good. “But out here it’s durned poor prac- tice,” thought TRobinson ruefully. ““Where can the skunk have gone? He must have 'em on.” There was practically only one way out of the town—the railroad—and a sudden remembrance of the waiting freight cars flashed across Robinson's mind. To seize the lantern, light it and lock the door behind him was but the work of a minute; in the next he had started down the hill on a dog-trot, the expression of his mouth boding ill for the tramp were he careless enough to be caught. Into the dark, dirty car, where lay a few tattered relics, turned out now and then by an irate conductor or busy freight hand, but always slipping back, came Robinson with determined mien, lantern in one hand, pistol in the other. “Hold up your feet,” he said sharply. The men roused, dazed and protesting from heavy slumbers, stared bewild- eredly as they thrust out feet drawn out from beneath straw or sacking. What new game was this? Robinson, heedless of question or criticism, after a quick flash of the lantern, hurried to the next car, leaving a wake of dis- gusted chaff. Through four cars plodded Robinson, and then in the fifth he recelved a shock. From the darkness came a voice unmistakably declining to show the re- quired foot. “Robinson’s voice softened ominously. “I think you had better,” he began gently, “otherwise I shall have to make you.” “Oh, please,” the voice was almost a wail, “let me alone. I haven't done you any harm. Go away.” “Go away!” repedted Robinson, fairly “NIXIE CLERK” AT MAIL MORGUE | IR R LIPSHOD carelessness is a nat- tional trait and statistics show it to be on the increase if we but consider the blundering publio’s voluntary contribution to the dead let- ter office. Superintendent Cox of the local post- office has some curious facts to contrib- ute about this'same carelessness. “Our office,” he says, “contains an array of unclaimed Christmas packages that have become detached from their ad- dress, while Tom, Dick or Harry in the East or over in China or “somewhere east of Buez'’/is waiting for a letter of acknowledgment. Many & misunder- standing of lifelong consequence has arisen from fool carelessness of this sort. The dead letter office holds the clew to many an unexplained mystery. “We have a clerk in the postoffice whom, for want of a better name, we call the ‘nixie clerk.’ His business is to ferret out, if possible, the correct address from the hieroglyphics on the envelope and give the letter a few last ‘tries’ before it is sent to the dead let- ter office. “In the manner of misdirecting a let- ter there are masculine mistakes and feminine mistakes. The following in- stance {llustrates a mistake of daily occurrence. A business man will write the street address of some firm in the East and then, from force of habit, put ‘city.” The letter is stamped ‘No such number’ and turned over to the ‘nixie clerk.’ This type of error is chronic with a surprising number of business men. The ‘nixie clerk’ overhauls postal guides and bulletins for the misping city, which he finds through the streets, or returns the letter for ‘better ad- dress.’ “The most flagrant feminine offense consists of adding or omitting a num- ber, as 1006 for 106, and vice versa. “Men are just as careless, but not as hopeless or helpless as are women. Business has trained them to put Qfl- dresses and other marks of identifica- tion inside, or at least to write their own addresses in the heading. They are also more committal regarding sig- natures, more often signing their full name, while women close with ‘Loving- ly yours, Nell’; ‘Your sister, Ann,’ etc. The initial signature is purely feminine. “Our ‘nixle clerk’ is a surprisngly clever sleuth, putting thousands of sidetracked missives on the main line yearly. He never flags in his perse- verance or begrudges them a final ‘try.’ “The power to open dead letters is delegated to especially deputized clerks in the dead letter office at Washing- ton, D, C., and not even the Postmaster General dares to open even the most insignificant looking of them.” Curiosity does not dog the genii whose job it is to find out where and how the other fellow’s brain slipped a cog. They merely scan the matter for the meat—an address, or a name, or anything tangible—and then throw the Jetter down and pass unsentimentally on to the next. ¥ Even at the dead letter morgue there is a distinction, the subjects be- ing divided into two stacks—'dead” and “alive.” The hopelessly dead letter might, per example, be headed “Grand View” and signed “Kate,” while some clew as to the identity of the writer or his future plans as to whereabouts might kindle some spark of hope in the breast of the deputy. . The letter pronounced hopelessly dead goes forthwith into the waste basket to be incinerated later. Addressed cor- ners on the envelope would insure 1,500,000 more deliveries per annum. No less than-48.000 letters and 4000 parcels found their way into the mails without scratch of pen for their iden- tification. Of the letters opened in the dead letter office in the hope of loca'.lnxdthc writers, u: total of n.oo% contained money, the aggregate o which was $49,000. Fifty-two thou- sand of the letters opened contalned checks, drafts, etc., amoun ‘p over $1,000,000. More than $13,000 could not be traced for return, and this was turned into the treasury as provided by law. Coin sent in frail covers drops out and blame for this sort of shiftless- ness invariably attaches to the postal officials. . Over 80,000 photographs were im- perfectly wrapped or addressed, ren- dering delivery impossible. The magazines, Illustrated papers and similar articles of little value are distributed among the hospitals of the District of Columbia. In 1902-03 more than 20,000 pleces were so util- ize d. Dead mail containing articles of merchandise is retained according to law one year and then auctioned. The time was formerly two years, but the vast amount of matter compelled the authorities o’ cut it in half. At the auction held this year some funny ex- hibits were sold. KEaster eggs, salad oll, arsenic, hair nets, dolls’ limbs, dress samples galore, nursing bottles, liver pills, beetles and live tarantulas, toads, snakes, shrouds, a coffin plate labeled “At Rest,” valentines in end- less profusion, toys, jewelry, skulls, found their way into the catalogue, which religlously proclaimed the probable value of each item without any attempt at “boosting” prices. The articles are sold in lots, each consist- ing of sevéral strangely assorted ar- ticles. In last year’s catalogue 5700 of these groups are listed. This ar- rangement stimulates the acquisitive- ness of the bidders and saves time. No. 8 on the list reads: ‘“One atomizer, child’s lined mittens, two yards Hamburg edging, woman's stock and tle, photograph album, child’s cheap purse. Number 6—One cheap watch and chain, eight men’'s rubber collars, cheap fountain pen. One item reads: Hypodermic syr- m.. lass eye and artificlal leg. Im- 1 e 't?' of the expectant would- reciplen Lot 500 contains ene razor, rag doll, pair of spectacles, matc safe, set of false teeth (lower jaw). one h stunned. “Go away. And my boots—" “Feet up nqw,” interrupted Robinson, curtly. “Here, let me see you,” slip- ping the lantern closer. A tall, slender boy in ragged clothing was revea gazing up with white face and implor- ing eyes. No one else was in the car, and for a second Robinson hesitated. “But you may be a pal” he de- cided, *Put 'em up at once. Lord, what a fuss about nothi as a of small. travel-stained boots madt reluctant appearance. “You needn't worry about those; they look more like a woman's feet,” with a short laugh. The sound of a smothered sob reached his ear and Robinson, start- ing, bent lower. “A log- goned if it ain't a tered slowly y ing here?” with a complete cha tone. The sobs deepened. —I'm trying to get East,” she wept. “My people are there and I . “But how came you here, this way?” The girl, after a quick glance at the handsome, interested face felt r courage returning. “I went out with my began timidly. “Them he mar again and his wife—she wasn't to me. But dad always looked me until he got killed in a figh got worse after that—she wante I couldn’t stand it,” with a ing look. “So I took some clothes and got away money, so I had to I she ed father,” good nobedy suspecte You see, I n't wear father's boots?” The big eyes filled again with tears and Robinson felt like a condemned ¢ 'Oh, cry,” he clumsily. te of its s ¢irt ‘and grime he could detect fair prettiness’ of the girl's face his teeth at ght have to mee th s ridiculous for a girl to th such a thing. Yet he couldn't a go back. Nor could he k h a sudden brightening of countenance, he set down the lan- ern and took both her hands in his. t got 't much of 3 h as-it is, it's yours if you will énly take it.” his t The gifl, her eyes widening In bewil- derment, ¢ “You 9 my ain’t near good enot I'll treat you well and—I've been some, for a fact, thot I didn't it, so if you could ¢ see your clear to favoring me—to giving me a chance,” his tone sank to e ty and the girl, who had listened incredulous- ly, uttered a little cry and dropped her forehead to the hands that still held hers, firm hands that any wo- man could tr Robinson's clasp tightened = citedly, as a swered him. woman. Say thought, come b vill,” he said ex- ittle nod an- little shamed “God bless you, » struck by a jubilant I just bet you the Bishop will ck and marry us.' And the Bishop did. [ENGAGEMENT — - OF DOROTHY By J. K. Palmer - (Copyright, 1804, by T. C. McClure.) > -4 HERE were only three of us sitting in the club when the Major came in. I never knéew why he was called Major, @B\ (', | except, perhaps, his name was Miner, and that he had a sort of military bearing. I asked him about it once. “Didn’t you ever hear the story,” he said, “of how General Willlamson got his title?"” I said that I had never heard it. “Well,” continued the Major, “he was a general ticket agent for the Chicago and South Pacific Raflroad.” With which evasive answer the Ma- jor turned to his paper and refused to converse further on the subject. As I sald, there were only three of us in the club when the Major came in. He seemed nervous, and called the boy to bring him some hot buttered rum. The night was bitterly cold, and Channing, Wilton and I had been walt- ing about, wishing that the storm would cease. It did not—so we waited longer. Then the Major came. “Hello,” he said, and passed us to give his order at the desk. Then he sat down at a table and began to write rapidly. He called the boy again and asked that he ring for a messenger. The messenger appeared. The Major handed him a note and some coins and told him to take a cab. “Must be in a hurry,” suggested Channing. “I am,” said the Major, “for if that note doesn’t get where it belongs with- in an hour it will be all up with Kem- ble.” He sat dowi. with us and began stir- ring his rum thoughtfully. “Great stuff, rum,” he said. “I've been thinking for a long time that I'm going to spend my declining years down on the Cape somewhere. I shall have a thatched cottage, some nastur- tiums growing in a wrecked dory on the lawn, and I shall sit on the beach, dressed in a sou’welter and oflskins, scanning the horizon for incoming lug- gers. Each ldgger will be laden with hot buttered rum.” The Major sipped his drink medita- tively. “You fellows want to hear a love story?” he asked. “Yes, let her go,” sald Wilton. ‘We settled back in our chairs, pre- pared to listen, for it was an unusual thing for the Major to volunteer a story of any kind. “I shan't tell you the end of the story till the boy gets back,” he began. “Is the boy the hero?" inquired Channing. “Not exactly, but he bears an im- portant message to the hero,” said the Major. Then he went on, and none of us in- terrupted him for some minutes. He talked slowly, and picked his words carefylly. “It was this way,” he began. “There -4 o was a man once who was a lawyer, and he had a ward who had been left to his care by her father when he died. The lawyer was a bachelor and he took the girl under his care, and man- aged her property. and sent her to school, and to college and abroad, and wherever he thought she might grow to be the woman her father had hoped she might be. Then when she came home to live he fell in love.with her. That's all there is of the first chap- ter.” The Major picked up his glass and held it between the light and his eyes. “Great stuff, hot buttered rum on a cold night,” he commented. Then he went on: “This man found that he was forgetting to do his work. He was thinking about her most of the time, and he began to lose confl- dence in his ability to win cases. He lost some that he should have won. Then he began to reason with himself, and he suddenly discovered that he couldn’t do anything more, anyhow, till he had told her he loved her and found out what she thought about it. Mind you, he was old enough to be her father, “So one night he went to her house and was prepared to tell her what he wanted to. They sat together befora the library fire. Then the man began to talk. ‘T have thought, Dorothy," he sald, ‘that it is about time you were married.” Then the young woman came over and laid her hand on his shoulder. ‘I have thought so, too," she sald. “The man went on talking. ‘Is there any one you care for particularly?’ he asked. ‘Y she said, ‘Dut we quar- reled after we had been engaged two days, and—I know I ought to have told you about the engagement. but Uncle Billy, honest, I wanted to keep it to myself for a little time yet.” “Then the man tried to tell her how much he loved her, but somehow he couldn’t. He just asked her who the man was that she had become engaged to. She told him, and told him, too, that the quarrel didn’t amount to any- thing, and that she wanted him to come to luncheon with you, Gregory”—and the Major turned to me—"and me to- morrow at 1 o'clock.” The Major stopped. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Wait till the boy comes back,” said the Major. Presently the boy returned with a note. The Major opened it and read it. Then he handed it to me. This was what it sald: “My Dear Major—W1ll meet you and Mr. Gregory with my mother and Miss Gordon at the Touraine at 1 to-mor- row. Thank you for what you lmave done. Very sincerely, -« “A. L. KEMBLE.” “Channing.” began the Major when [ had finished reading, “and you, Wilton, you are both pretty close friends of our families, and I am glad I have the hon- or of announcing to you the engage- ment of Mr. Gregory's niece and my ward, Miss Dorothy Selden, to Mr. Al- fred L. Kemble.” The Major ‘and I received the con- gratulations of the others, for we all liked Kemble tremendously. Then the Major ordered some more hot drinks. “When I get my thatched cottage down on the Cape will you chaps come down and help me scan the horizon?™ he asked. “I shall be pretty lonesome un- less some of you come to visit me.”